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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536680">little dark age</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/villhag/pseuds/villhag'>villhag</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, GAMER AU!!!, Gamer AU - Freeform, esports au???, this is a lot of things but mostly it is self-serving, this is dedicated to twitter, twitch au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:20:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/villhag/pseuds/villhag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning the game was perfunctory. Now came the real performance.</p><p>OR: GAMER AU</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>153</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prelude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this opening chapter is dedicated to twitter user lightfighter</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Villanelle takes a breath. Swivels in her decadent desk chair. Twirls a honey blonde braid between two fingers. Ponders how to destroy a man in two sentences or less. She must make it good―concise and biting.</p><p>Blood is hot in her ears, cold in her veins. It is not the fear of losing, but the adrenaline of an anticipatory victory. It is almost trite, the high of it; she is so used to it by now―the steady <em> yes, yes, yes </em> as she pummels the digital dagger in, flanks, fires three bullets. Traces the trajectory, hit, hit, <em> miss</em>. Woe is her. Luck is his.</p><p>Please, spare her the pity―she never shoots to win. She shoots to make a <em> point</em>. He was dead fifteen minutes ago. He was dead when Villanelle logged on. He was dead at birth, waiting in wake for the moment where Villanelle rose from her bed to end another burgeoning career.</p><p>She watches his avatar fall, collapse; a pile of pitiful pixels.</p><p>Winning was perfunctory. Now came the real performance.</p><p>“<em>God</em>, you are an absolute joke,” Villanelle breathes in, smirks wildly into her microphone, “killing you was no fun at all. I had my eyes closed the entire time. Shut tight. I was listening to an episode of The Office. You know, the one with the garden party? That one. Absolutely riveting. And then here <em> you </em> are, trying so hard. And still losing. How sad for you.”</p><p>She watches her opponent’s expression shrivel. Aghast. Humiliated. Disgraced! The perfect picture of a life derailed. Her fans will eat this up. Already are. The Twitch chat is rabid, chanting, chanting. She feels the jitter of an email shake her phone in her pocket. <em> Money </em> . Unimportant. The real feast is in the commentary. The headlines. The petulant journalists who line her pockets. Who call her <em> toxic</em>, <em> cancelled, sensationalist, </em>as if it wasn’t their essays that feed her fandom. Who pad her rise to infamy.</p><p>Villanelle’s phone rattles again. She ignores it. Surfs the Twitch directory instead. New faces, ugly avatars. Screaming boys and their ranting fans. Social climbers. Artists. A woman playing a harp wearing a horse mask. A mural of unfamiliar colleagues. </p><p>Except for one, plastered atop the screen. Flashing bright and beautiful underneath the <em> FEATURED </em>banner.</p><p>There was the rest, the babble, the peasantry―and then there was <em> her</em>.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Piece of shit asshole,” Eve mutters, clicking furiously. Her eyes are bleary, studying the screen to the point of blindness. </p><p>Her opponent pivots, changing tactics. Eve immediately clues in: an onslaught is coming. An enemy peeks out from the bushes. Dives.</p><p>Eve blinks.</p><p>Muscle memory is all it takes. She presses 5, 4, 3, 2. Directs her mouse over his head, shoots to kill. Blood splatter. It’s macabre―limbs astrew, knuckles flying. Eve cracks her neck. Macros fire off. Her character leaps, swoops, out of view.</p><p>Eve doesn’t let herself smile until she’s hit the loading screen again. Match over. Add another to the limitless tally. Forty-two years of age and she’s still got it. Her gaze flutters to the chat; she snickers at the usual banter. </p><p><em>GRANDMA GAMER</em> <em>UNBEATABLE</em></p><p>
  <em> EV3L LEGEND </em>
</p><p>
  <em> POG POG EV3L WORLD DOMINATION </em>
</p><p>
  <em> V1LL1NY COULD NEVER LOLOL </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s spelled villainy, you f*** a*** p**** of s*** f**cker </em>
</p><p>Eve’s eye twitches. She pauses the chat, scrolling back upwards. It wasn’t really?―In her <em> Twitch chat </em>? For fuck’s sake―</p><p>No. Yup. Of course. Because Twitch’s reigning champion had nothing better to do than…</p><p>This. Apparently.</p><p>Eve coughs loudly into the microphone. The chat is collapsing in on itself. A <em> celebrity </em> in their midst. Not just any celebrity, but Eve’s natural foil. For all intents and purposes, her resident enemy of state. </p><p>“Don’t mind her. That’s not villainy,” she says, monotone, “that’s just a bot.”</p><p>Chat disagrees. <em> Villainy </em> disagrees, vehemently. Eve would grin, but her webcam watches over like a hawk. She holds steady. Can’t give <em> her </em> the wrong idea. </p><p>
  <em> VI1LLAINY WORST PLAYER NA </em>
</p><p>
  <em> V1ILLAINY OMG OMG </em>
</p><p>
  <em> EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ILLANY SUCKS 2018 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You look good, Eve. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ILLANY SUCKS 2018 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> New hair product? God. Your curls look amazing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>EV3L BEAT V1LLAINY 2018 🗯️ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I've missed you.</em>
</p><p>Eve frowns. <em> Fuck</em>. She straightens. She will not be giving her the satisfaction. Worse, this has already become a clip. Youtube clickbait. The drama channels are already spinning tails. The internet influencer industrial complex grinds its gears.</p><p>Her headphones blare, the tell-tale sounds of a new match in motion.</p><p>
  <em> A new game has been found. Would you like to accept? </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. discord (noun)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Irina,” Villanelle cries out, absolutely ear-splitting, “do you think I could spend two thousand dollars on loot boxes and put it down as a business expense?”</p><p>No response―Villanelle takes this as <em> yes, duh, of course you can</em>―swipes the metaphorical credit card. <em> Cha-ching</em>. She watches with glee as the digital box unties and opens wide, a plethora of rewards spilling out. </p><p>Except―wait.</p><p>She frowns. Gravely. An absolute travesty has transpired.</p><p>She did not get the digital wife she was betting on.</p><p>“Rigged,” she grits, “absolutely fucking rigged.”</p><p>She tries again. What is another hundred? Chump change. And on the company card, no less; the visual stimuli is simply too irresistible―the sounds and sights are seductive, addicting. Fireworks shoot across her screen. Red, green, purples. She bites her lip to bleeding, holds a bated breath, clenches her mouse and stares.</p><p>The screen buzzes. </p><p>
  <em> Congratulations, you got Marrisa! Marrisa is a level 3 tank. Wow! </em>
</p><p><em> Oh, </em> now this is an insult. An affront. <em> Abuse.</em> She will find the engineers who orchestrated this and there will be <em> blood</em>. Pools of it. So sad, so sorry. She will cut them down to parts, make her own loot box. Five dollars and you might just get an arm! Or a leg! Two hundred dollars later and you might just get the coveted pinkie toe. She’ll even apply some nail polish. </p><p>She contemplates their demise. Smiles sweetly at the bloody mess of it.</p><p>But, alas―her machinations are interrupted by a very expected intruder.</p><p>“You are so fucking dumb,” Irina strides up to Villanelle’s laptop and points a pudgy finger to her screen, “you know the chance of getting Evelyn is 1% right?”</p><p>“And?” Villanelle shrugs, “I have great luck.”</p><p>“Oh, is that true? Then why am I staring at ugly Marrisa instead?”</p><p>Villanelle frowns. Irina is stupid.</p><p>“She is not <em> that </em>ugly. And it is simple,” Villanelle rolls her eyes, “I am being conspired against.”</p><p>Irina takes a step back, levels a glare of disbelief, “By… who? The algorithm?”</p><p>“Yes. Duh. It knows who I am, and it is very jealous.”</p><p>“You are the most delusional person I have ever met.”</p><p>Villanelle grins, slow, deliberate, “And yet who here is the intern?” </p><p>“For the last time,” Irina growls, “I am not your intern, I am your <em> cousin</em>.”</p><p>“I do not see the difference.”</p><p>“Of course you don’t. Idiot.”</p><p>Villanelle turns away from her and towards the screen. Sees ugly Marrisa and scowls.</p><p>“Whatever,” Villanelle waves her off. Click; makes another purchase, “Leave me be. I am playing the long game, I will outsmart this <em> algorithm </em> soon.”</p><p>“Did you skip fucking Math class or something? You can’t just―”</p><p>Villanelle cuts her off with a scream. The monitor turns bright blue, streamers fall from the proverbial ceiling. Bells and chimes and whistles howl. </p><p>
  <em> Congratulations! You got Evelyn! Evelyn is a Level 20 Assassin! Wow! </em>
</p><p>Irina curses, Villanelle gloats.</p><p>“You’re still fucking stupid.”</p><p>“And you’re still twelve. Go get me a coffee.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Eve’s muscles are on <em> fire</em>.</p><p>She circles the block again. Must be her fifth lap―feels like her eighth, her tenth, her millionth. The pain is acute, runs up her tendons, spreads like wildfire. She feels the burgeoning ache of a bruised ankle. Still―she doesn’t stop. She runs until she sees red, crimson, maroon. Breaks just outside the gates. <em> Heaves. </em> Gasps. Lets the bloated Californian air enter her nostrils, fill her lungs. </p><p>She leans against the fence, checks her phone. A stream of notifications trickle down: emails, fanmail, DMs, sponsors, brand deals. </p><p>And… Three new videos from Twitch Drama Watch. She flinches. Whatever. It’s fine. They have plenty of other nonsense to report on besides <em> her</em> nonsense. It’d be self-centered to think―</p><p>
  <em> #1 TOXIC QUEEN VILLAINY RAIDS EV3L TWITCH CHAT *NOT CLICKBAIT* </em>
</p><p>
  <em> VILLAINY PREPARES FOR CHAMPIONSHIP BY HARASSING EV3L, TYPICAL!!! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> EV3L AND VILLAINY: THE FRIENDS TO ENEMIES (TO LOVERS???) TIMELINE, PART 8 </em>
</p><p>Her cheeks flush. It’s the weather, it’s the heat, it’s the exercise. It’s anything but <em> this</em>. She shoves the phone back in her pocket. Twists the key roughly into the door.</p><p> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“You are my least favorite employee. I want you to know this before we begin.”</p><p>Konstantin’s voice is hard and flat on the phone. A dull rock. Villanelle laughs, revels in the truth of it. She so enjoys being the favorite <em> anything</em>.</p><p>“Is this where you compliment me about my viewership? God, those numbers are so <em> strong</em>. Oh, or maybe it is about the brand deal I just got? I can’t remember, it was Adidas, yes?”</p><p>As Villanelle rambles, she stares at her reflection. Pads at her cheeks. Stretches her eyelids. Practices emotions―happy, sad, defeated, angry. Only so many are useful to her, but a wide arsenal is always advantageous.</p><p>“Dear Lord. It’s <em> Nike</em>. They made you your own pair of Air Jordans, Villanelle.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, whatever. Minor details. Did you give them my feedback on those? I’d rather be an Air something else. Air Katy… Air Trisha. Air Yveltal. Jordan is kind of tacky.”</p><p>The phone is silent. </p><p>“Have you ever watched sports? Like any of them?”</p><p>“Obviously,” she pops the o; falls back into her desk chair, “I play them professionally.”</p><p>“I meant the ones that <em> don’t </em> involve keyboards.”</p><p>“Which are those? The ones with controllers? You know I don’t own an Xbox, Konstantin.”</p><p>Konstantin’s next sentence is so strained it is nearly a cry, a low, deathly bellow. Villanelle is absolutely giddy with it.</p><p>“Nevermind. This is not about any of that. This is about you and your little obsession.”</p><p>Villanelle’s chest tightens. The pain is pleasant. Her mind floods with a singular woman―curly hair. Dark eyes. An adorably glowering frown.</p><p>“Oh, the loot boxes? You should not be worried. I got the lady I wanted it. I will not need to allocate any more funds to that.”</p><p>“First of all, that is coming directly out of your paycheck―”</p><p>“No it’s not,” Villanelle singsongs.</p><p>“Yes it is―”</p><p>“No it’s not,” Villanelle repeats, laughing, “or I will accuse you of made up crimes on Twitter.”</p><p>Konstantin groans.</p><p>“Whatever. Whatever! This is not about that. This is about Ev3l.”</p><p>“Evil? What, are you a priest? Is this confession? I have no sins to confess today, Father.”</p><p>“Not <em> Evil </em>, oh my god, I will kill―”</p><p>Villanelle matches his tone with a groan of her own, “It is not my fault you refuse to call her Eve. That is her name. Use it. It is very pretty.”</p><p>“See, this is exactly what I am talking about. I am using her professional name to set <em> boundaries</em>. Professional boundaries. Which you appear to have none of.”</p><p>“Oh, Konstantin, sometimes you are so <em> silly </em>,” Villanelle opens her laptop, begins to scroll; this conversation was growing tired, and she now had a more pressing fixation to attend to, “I do not have any boundaries, period. This is not a work thing.”</p><p>“Well, boo hoo. You will have to get some. Public opinion is not in your favor. They feel bad for her. They think you are <em> harassing</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Harassing </em>? I told her I missed her. Called her pretty.”</p><p>“Yes. I know. This is called <em> sexual </em> harassment.”</p><p>Villanelle barks out a laugh. Sexual harassment! Her! To <em> Eve! </em> She opens Discord. Finds her finger hovering over a familiar profile. Thinks, however briefly. Gives into the temptation of blatant disobedience.</p><p><em> omg hi eve </em> 🥰🥰🥰 <em> how are you </em>🥰🥰🥰</p><p>Perfect. Just perfect. God, she was good.</p><p>“Villanelle?” Konstantin shouts, “Are you still there? Are you even <em> listening </em>?”</p><p>“What? Yes. Duh. Totally get it,” she ponders her next emoji, scrolls through her selection, “completely in agreement. I will stop sexually harassing Eve at once.”</p><p>“I… really? You are serious?”</p><p>“Of course,” Villanelle emphasizes, aghast, “I have nothing but respect for women.”</p><p>
  <em> eve!!! hello!!! I can see that ur online. </em>
</p><p>Three dots appear on the screen. Villanelle's eyes widen.</p><p>“You better mean that, Villanelle. You have a lot at stake here. The tournament is soon, and if you do not focus, you will lose. Do not make me remind you again.”</p><p>The dots fade. Moments pass. Deafening silence.</p><p>Villanelle frowns. This was no fun. </p><p><em> don’t be f****ing r*de </em>😀</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I will play nice. Are you done now?”</p><p>Konstantin sighs. Villanelle watches her screen, despairs.</p><p>“Yes. I am done. And remember, do not―”</p><p>“<em>Do any interviews </em>, yes, I know. You are no fun. Ever. Chronically boring. You should get it looked at.”</p><p>“I do not know why I even try.”</p><p>“Mm, I do not know either,” Villanelle smiles, pictures his grumpy, sullen face, “tchau.”</p><p>Villanelle ends the call. Stares holes into her laptop screen. Burns her corneas with the image of Eve’s avatar. She will text back. She <em> will</em>. She always does. Well, okay, lie―sometimes she doesn’t. Often. Close to never. There was maybe a 20% chance. Okay―five percent. Two.</p><p>The three dots are back. They burst.</p><p>
  <em> Did you just censor the word rude? </em>
</p><p>Villanelle swivels in her chair, throws her head back. Stomps her feet on the ground. Wow, now <em> this </em> was a win. An entire sentence. Seven whole words. A question. Villanelle’s high score with Eve previous to this had been three, maybe four―“<em>I’m blocking you </em> ”―or, occasionally, if she was lucky―“<em>Get a life. Bye. </em>”</p><p>Her skin tingles with the memory of it. The ongoing possibility.</p><p>
  <em> I did not want to be disrespectful, Eve </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The word before it was literally “fucking” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ugh. Whatever. What do you want? </em>
</p><p>Villanelle bites her lip, giggles. She is <em> giggling</em>. Wow.</p><p>
  <em> Oh. Nothing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Just wanted to say I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry? Sorry for what? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know how second place can be. It is so much worse than third. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am always here for you, of course. If you need to talk. Streamer to streamer. E-girl to e-girl. </em>
</p><p><em> But I’m sure your fans won’t care! </em> 😊😊 <em> They like you too much. </em></p><p>
  <em> You are very likeable.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh wow. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Piss the fuck off. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You know, it's probably for the best that you don’t let chat see your face.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All that crying.. It would be meme’d to oblivion. Poor thing. All over Twitter. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh―<em>oh</em>. Villanelle is <em> soaring</em>. So giddy it’s dizzying, wearing a grin that splits her face in two. She pictures Eve’s expression in her mind’s eye. The scowl, the building rage. The unbridled confidence. The image stirs low in her stomach. How she wishes they could just cut to the <em> chase </em> already.</p><p><em> Oh, Eve. I so appreciate your concern. </em> 🥰🥰 <em> Misplaced, but so sweet!! </em></p><p>
  <em>You know, maybe I will consider the face reveal. Just for you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can even throw in a few... other reveals, too, if you’d like. </em>
</p><p>😌</p><p>You have been blocked by user Ev3l</p><p>Villanelle beams. Circles her mouse around Eve’s avatar, a digital caress. Pictures herself reaching through the screen. Tugging softly on curly hair. Pulling Eve out the other side.</p><p>Her mouse pointer freezes. An idea sprouts. </p><p>Oh<em> Konstantin. </em> She would have to thank him later.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. no interviews</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eve curls her fingers into the stress ball and digs. Presses her nail beds so deep that they burn, skin hot against punchy silicone. It stings. Stings <em> so bad</em>. She pushes harder still, ego fighting hard against instinct; it’s a litmus test―at what point does muscle betray drive?</p>
<p>After several too-long seconds, she releases, feels tired muscles cramp awkwardly against bone. She waves her hand around and stares out the window; her eye-level just about meets the pavement, scours the dirt and passing footfall. She feels, not for the first time, like she lives in a bunker.</p>
<p>Which, look―it’s a <em> basement</em>, asshole.</p>
<p>Eve is reminded of this fact by the sound of a walker slamming hard against the floorboards just above her head. First it was a cane, but now <em> this</em>; Eve resents her landlord for aging. Flits between plotting her demise and reluctantly planning the dinner she’ll later deliver her. Broccoli. Green beans? Chicken. Rat poison? Mm, no―the salmon is cheaper this time of year.</p>
<p>Eve turns her attention to her monitor. This does not take much effort―it is near impossible to turn away from. It’s four times the size of a typical laptop screen. Seven times the pixel quality. Eighteen times as alluring as anything else going on in her life.</p>
<p>She opens Discord. Checks her blocked list, again. Refreshes. Yup. Still there. Still blocked.</p>
<p>She contemplates unblocking. Just so she can say something <em> particularly </em> rude. Something disgustingly irredeemable. She entertains a brief moment of brainstorming.</p>
<p>  <em> shut the fuck up u glorified hey mamas aim-bot using ugly can’t even show her face on stream disqualified for misconduct ass makes thirst traps about her own fucking hands cretin </em></p>
<p>Eve rolls her eyes. That barely scratches the surface.</p>
<p>She inches her finger up and down the mouse wheel and scrolls. Her stream doesn’t begin for another hour. This is supposedly her <em> free time</em>. But what’s she supposed to do with that? She took her hobby and accidentally made it a career, now what? Is she expected to read a book? Hang out with friends?</p>
<p>Eve pauses. Yes, actually. That is exactly what normal people do in the time between work and sleep. But alas.</p>
<p>She checks YouTube.</p>
<p>And―fuck. Fuck. <em> Of course</em>.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“Well goddamn, now <em> this </em>is a surprise guest,” Trevor turns in his chair, slapping the couch seat next to him. A figure strides into view of the camera, face entirely obscured in post-production. Eve’s eyes linger on what she can see―slender, angular limbs disguised by a broad-shouldered trench coat. A slinky black dress. Knee high socks, sheer and blood red; towering combat boots.</p>
<p>The figure laughs, settling into the couch. She spreads as widely as possible, taking up two full cushions. The posture, the clothes: it’s ego personified. Eve scrubs at the blur crudely covering her face, attempts to will the pixels off the screen. It does not work, because, <em> duh</em>.</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck off,” Eve grumbles, hyper-aware of her own internal narrator.</p>
<p>“So… Villainy,” Trevor begins, clapping his hands together excitedly, “if I’m not mistaken, this is your first ever in-person interview? The internet’s beloved demon with no face, blessing me with a visual!”</p>
<p>“You are my first. Are you honored?” she laughs, oozes confidence, “you should be honored.”</p>
<p>“Completely. You know, I feel like the viewers should know―before we begin with any of the usual shit―that you are really fucking hot,” he remarks, matter-of-fact, “you heard it here first Twitchers. Villainy is <em> smoking!</em> Why do you never show your face on stream?”</p>
<p>Villainy takes a moment to respond, running her fingers methodically up and down her thigh. Angles her neck. Eve can’t see her face but she just knows she’s <em> sneering</em>, preening; she’s looking Eve straight through. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” she responds, cooly, “you are rather gross looking yourself.” </p>
<p>He laughs, unfettered; after all, this is Twitch Drama Watch, not CNN.</p>
<p>He pivots. “So, let’s talk about you. I’ll have you know we’ve never gotten so many subscriber questions in under 24 hours. You’re a real record breaker.”</p>
<p>Villainy is barely acknowledging him, opting to check her nails and play with the ends of a braid, honey blonde sticking out behind a blurred visage. Eve’s eyes track it, hover over long, pale fingers. Trevor clears his throat. </p>
<p>“So, since we got such an influx of questions, we’re going to do some rapid fire Q&amp;A. How does that sound?”</p>
<p>Villainy is the very picture of disinterest. She waves her hand; “whatever it is you do here, sure.”</p>
<p>Eve is reeled in by her apathy, leans further into the monitor. Pictures clawing her toiled fingers into the tiny Youtube studio, like God reaching down from the heavens, dragging the woman out of the screen by the blurry braid. Eve’s eyes trace and trace and trace; try desperately to identify a pattern of facial features behind the pixels, a living, breathing person behind the false display. </p>
<p>Trevor ignores her, bless his misogynistic soul, “I’ll let you off easy to start.”</p>
<p>“Don’t,” Villainy responds, quick as a whip, and Eve can nearly picture the saccharine, twisting smile, “if this gets too boring, I will leave.”</p>
<p>Trevor winces, and Eve can’t help but laugh; this is not a man unused to tough company. But there’s tough and then there’s...</p>
<p>“Alright, nothing boring,” he recovers, scrolls past a few questions on his phone, “why do you never write back to fans?”</p>
<p>“I game, <em> professionally</em>, Trevor,” she whines, “I can’t risk my wrists.”</p>
<p>“So you don’t… write?” he balks.</p>
<p>“Never.”</p>
<p>“Nothing? Not even a grocery list?”</p>
<p>“I have an intern for that,” another hand wave. Trevor is already stupefied. Eve is both amused and <em> pissed </em> . Maybe she <em> should </em> unblock her. Just to say one thing. Two things. A few highly personalized, gutting comments. God, this dumb, overconfident―</p>
<p>“Favorite musician?”</p>
<p>“Eminem.”</p>
<p>“Really?” he grins.</p>
<p>“No,” she laughs, “fuck no.”</p>
<p>He sighs. Tries again. </p>
<p>“Best brand?”</p>
<p>“Victoria’s Secret.”</p>
<p>“You like their lingerie, yeah?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. It is terrible. I only like their advertisements.”</p>
<p>He pauses, confusion written on his face. </p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“The women are hot,” Eve grumbles at her screen.</p>
<p>“The women are hot,” Villainy laughs.</p>
<p>“Right on,” he coughs, visibly bewildered, “moving on. How did you get into streaming?”</p>
<p><em> Oh</em>―Eve’s thoughts hit a brick wall, crumple like tissue paper. She inhales unwittingly. Hears the walker slam, curses under her breath.</p>
<p>“See, that is a good question. Well done,” Villainy answers, “you are using all two brain cells now. Complete engagement.”</p>
<p>He frowns, just marginally, and Eve sees a producer snicker in the corner.</p>
<p>“I turn the lights on up there once in a while. Now, I’m excited to hear your―”</p>
<p>“Anyway,” she cuts him off, “most of it is very public information―my fanbase is <em> passionate</em>―but I will enlighten you to some of the less available details, hm? It is a very good story. It involves a very good friend of mine. A fellow streamer.”</p>
<p>He takes the bait, “Ev3l, right?”</p>
<p>Villainy is practically gleaming, talking avidly with her hands; Eve, in turn, has receded deeply into her chair. History falling heavy, bone-crushing on her back, tearing at the muscle fibre; the pain in her fingers grows more acute. She feels a bandaid peel off, sudden and bleeding.</p>
<p>“Yes, <em> Ev3l</em>,” Villainy responds slowly, clearly unhappy to speak in display names, “you know, it is so sad what has happened with her recently. She used to be so good, you know? One of the best. I suppose it is natural to fall off after so many years, all the stress, the harassment…”</p>
<p>Eve’s brain whirs back alive at the insult. The <em> harassment </em> ? Please, Eve is in second <em> goddamn </em> place. There’s a <em> fifty point </em> difference. That’s half a percentage point. Barely a statistic. She checks the video’s view count―100,000―and it had only been out for eight hours. She supposes this is the gift of managing oneself; the hard blows never come softened. No one is around to public relations her way out of, well―</p>
<p>Quarrels with petty <em> villains</em>.</p>
<p>Eve rolls her eyes. Ignores her rapid-fire pulse.</p>
<p>“I mean, she still has a chance to overtake you, Villainy. You only hold the title by fifty points.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and how long have I held that lead by? A month? Oh, no… two months?”</p>
<p>“Well―”</p>
<p>“Anyway, I do not want to insult Ev3l. She is trying very hard. And I care about her. Deeply. I would be nowhere without her, you know? Without her help, I’d be nothing, really.”</p>
<p>Eve thinks of time travel. She bites her lip and it’s raw, bleeds easy.</p>
<p>“What? Are you kidding? I thought that was just a rumor?” he guffaws, leaning in; Eve can practically hear his head screaming, rabid with the prospect: <em> content, content, content</em>.</p>
<p>“Of course not. She practically discovered me. My very own Justin Timberlake,” she pauses, laughs, “but <em> much </em> sexier.”</p>
<p>“The two of you have met?”</p>
<p>“Regrettably, no,” she sighs, wistfully, and Eve feels feint, <em> awake</em>, irate, “she found my stream, yes? Back when I had only a hundred subscribers or so. So painfully unpopular. Hard to visualize, I know. A real feat of the imagination. But it did happen like this: she told her viewers about my stream, had a recurring banner everyday―check out Villainy, check out Villainy, poor little, new to the block <em> Villainy</em>―and the numbers just started pouring in. Overflowing. Nearly overnight. You know how the saying goes, when you strike gold, right?”</p>
<p>She’s heard enough. Eve’s mind blares a command to her body, but finds it falls on deaf receptors; her fingers are frozen in place, absolutely aching. She can feel the very tendons, muscle and bone, screaming, <em> screaming</em>. Muscle betraying drive―</p>
<p>“Anywho, she was invaluable to me, really. Still is,” the blur twists, looks hazily towards the camera, pauses, “I am very regretful that we did not have the opportunity to get to know each other better, you know? Before our little falling out. I think we would be great friends. We are so much alike. If only she knew.”</p>
<p>“We are <em> nothing </em> alike,” Eve seethes at her screen. </p>
<p>“So, so much alike,” Villainy reiterates.</p>
<p>“I think your viewers would disagree,” Trevor interjects, unknowingly rupturing a connection, a tendon running asynchronously over ones and zeros. </p>
<p>For the first time in moments, minutes, Eve remembers to breathe.</p>
<p>“Oh, that little rivalry?” Villainy laughs, “that is all very one-sided. I have been waving my white flag.”</p>
<p>“Fucking nonsense” Trevor laughs, “Twitch’s most toxic streamer is ready for a truce?”</p>
<p>Villainy stretches, yawns. Raises from the couch and walks, slowly, calculated towards the camera. Pixels entrench the screen, condemn the video to a blurry pool of warring shades.</p>
<p>She taps twice on the lens, knuckles knocking through the screen.</p>
<p>“Of course not,” she responds, finally, “I am just saying <em> hi</em>, <em> Eve</em>.”</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p>The video ends. Is over.</p>
<p>The walker slams against the floor, the ceiling vibrates.</p>
<p>Eve screams.</p>
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